


Cuffed

by fennelseed



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Desperation, Fluff and Smut, Handcuffs, Kink, M/M, Pee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 07:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20849420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennelseed/pseuds/fennelseed
Summary: Sam, handcuffed and desperate. What more could Frodo want?





	Cuffed

**Author's Note:**

> Finally reposting this infamous one from way back in the early 2000s, as I see it's seemingly nowhere else to be found anymore.
> 
> Original notes:   
Disclaimer: I most certainly don't own these characters and haven't been paid for writing stuff like this.  
Author's Note: This is my attempt at kinky slash, and indeed I think it must be the kinkiest thing I've ever written. I may someday decide it's just too weird, and disown it. In the meantime, I expect lots of "Eww, gross!" reviews. However, to the fetishists out there who enjoy locking up hobbits and making them squirm: this one's for you.

Frodo giggled as he walked beside Sam, along the forest path in the moonlight.

"Yes, it's very funny, I know," said Sam, somewhat irritably.

"No - I'm sorry; I'm not laughing at you," Frodo said. "It's just, it feels like I've arrested you. If anyone saw us that's probably what they'd think."

Sam allowed a dry smile. "Reckon they would. 'There's those Gamgees, drunk and disorderly again.' "

Frodo giggled again, and patted Sam's shoulder to comfort him. "We'll slip off the road if anyone comes along. They needn't see."

"Bad enough my gaffer'll see me like this," Sam muttered. "Never live this one down, I won't."

Sam shifted his wrists uncomfortably; they were locked behind his back with a pair of iron shackles Merry had brought that night to a birthday party a few miles outside Hobbiton. Merry had found them in a shed near Brandy Hall, and he and Pippin had convinced Sam to try them on, for a lark. Then Merry had discovered that the key was not in his pocket as he had previously thought. The key, in fact, was nowhere to be found. Sam had been furious with them, but there was nothing they could do, except stay out of range of his kicks. The fastest solution would be to return to Bagshot Row and get Sam's gaffer to pick the lock with one of his tools.

Merry and Pippin had already started back for Buckland, and now Frodo was walking Sam back to Hobbiton for this purpose. Though he felt truly sorry for Sam, Frodo admitted openly to being amused, and was secretly a little bit pleased as well. Strong, shy, handsome Samwise in handcuffs had its possibilities. Frodo was entertaining notions of stealing a mischievous kiss since Sam would be unable to fend him off. Probably not a wise idea; just the ale talking, he thought to himself.

"Don't be too angry with Merry, Sam," he said. "I think he really did mean to bring the key. It probably fell out of his pocket on the way there."

"I suppose," Sam sighed. "Now I just wish I hadn't drunk all that ale."

"Indeed; you might not have agreed to try those things on, otherwise."

"It's not that. It's..." Sam shifted, and seemed embarrassed. He squirmed a bit, even as he walked.

Frodo suddenly understood, and felt himself blush (he was grateful for the faintness of the moonlight). "Oh, dear, Sam, I am sorry. Do you think you can wait till we get home? I know it's probably at least a half-hour's walk..."

"I'll try, but you know how it is with ale," Sam sulked.

"Indeed, yes, I understand." Frodo continued to walk beside him, but now his heart was thumping fast and loud. The thought of Sam desperate to unfasten his breeches, unable to do so...possibly needing Frodo's help...oh, goodness, that was much better than a stolen kiss. Frodo bit hard on the edge of his lip.

Of course, he didn't want to make Sam miserable or any more embarrassed than he already was, so he changed the subject and got Sam talking about the Proudfoot lad's wedding that was going to take place next week, on Midsummer's Eve. They carried on this conversation for perhaps ten minutes, before Sam's answers started becoming shorter.

Finally he stopped walking, and pleaded, "It's no good, Mr. Frodo. I don't think I can wait." He had his thighs pressed together, hands pitifully latched behind him, and was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Frodo, gazing stunned upon this spectacle, felt himself harden; his breath came faster. Dearie me, he thought. Have I a fetish I didn't know about?

But, much as Frodo would have liked to continue staring at Sam and pondering this issue, time was ticking by and Sam required a response. Frodo cleared his throat and tried to sound reassuring. "All right. We'll work something out. Now...are you sure you can't get your hands under you, and step over them, so they're in front...?"

"We've already tried it," Sam insisted, which was true - they had tried and failed at this maneuver, at the party, at least an hour ago. Sam had proved a bit too stout and inflexible for the operation.

"So you need...some help," Frodo ventured, watching Sam's knees press closed and then open again, over and over. Frodo hoped his hands wouldn't shake too much if their services would be required in manhandling Sam. This was turning out just too exciting for everyone's good.

"Oh, this is awful." Sam bowed his head. He sounded close to tears.

The tone moved Frodo to compassionate action, and he finally broke out of his erotic stupor. "Sam, Sam, Sam," he soothed. He took Sam's elbow and led him off the path, into the forest. "I don't mind a bit, I promise you. Did I ever tell you I wet my pants at a party once, when I was sixteen?"

A soft, broken chuckle escaped Sam. "No, reckon you didn't tell me."

"It wasn't my fault; I was tickled relentlessly. By Marigold Bolger. Wicked wench. I've never forgiven her."

"Well, I'm twenty-five and there would just be no excuse at all for me wetting mine."

"Except drinking a pint of ale and then getting handcuffed by your very evil friends."

Several trees and shrubs now stood between them and the road. Frodo and Sam halted. Frodo let go of Sam's arm and turned to face him, slowly. The leaves overhead blocked much of the moonlight, but he could still see the painfully ashamed cast of Sam's downturned face.

"I can't believe I'm asking you to do this, sir," Sam said, in a near whisper. He was still squirming, though he seemed to be trying not to.

Though Frodo's pulse now throbbed in his throat, he swallowed against it and took up a chipper tone. "Nonsense. I'm sure you'd do the same for me, wouldn't you?"

"Suppose so, if I wasn't handcuffed," Sam mumbled.

"Well. Let's take care of this. Only cruel to make you wait any longer." Frodo took a deep breath and began unbuttoning Sam's trousers, trying to seem natural about it. It was awkward, as he had seldom buttoned or unbuttoned anyone else's clothes before; plus his fingers were indeed shaking, and there was no denying the hot hardness in his breeches at this point.

As he parted the folds of Sam's soft cotton drawers, it occurred to him that, for one thing, he would have to move over and stand beside Sam, not in front of him, unless he wanted to be peed upon; and, for another, he would have to hold Sam and...well...aim him throughout, or Sam would merely get his own feet wet and would probably not appreciate that very much.

Sam took in his breath in a hiss. "Please, just take it out; I really have to..."

"Of course. Sorry, sorry." Frodo moved aside, closer to Sam, and in one brave plunge reached down into Sam's undergarments and pulled him out. He found he had to swallow again. Was he actually salivating over this moment? Frodo prayed that Sam would never find out what a perverted master he had.

What he held was half-erect, as it happened, and warm and slightly damp with sweat. All probably the effect of needing to be relieved, Frodo rationalized, but he couldn't help wondering if there were other reasons. Despite feeling what must have been debilitating shame, could Sam have been enjoying this on some level, at all?

"I'm sorry ahead of time if I get any on you," Sam said. Frodo looked at him and smiled. Sam's voice had indicated, at least, a flicker of humor. A good sign.

"Well, go ahead, then," Frodo said, since currently nothing was happening. (Except that he was standing in a dark forest with a shackled Samwise whose breeches were opened and whose private parts Frodo was holding in his right hand...yes, Frodo thought, this would provide him with spicy fantasy material for approximately the next ten years.)

Sam bit his lower lip, and a trickle pattered out onto the forest floor; then another; then he relaxed and let out his breath, and released his bladder in a steady stream. The sound of relief he made in his throat, soft as a whisper, almost undid Frodo, who (while blushing madly) was thinking that one well-placed caress on his own body, even through his trousers, would soon be enough to push him over the edge.

He wanted to make this searingly intimate moment last longer, wicked though he felt to capitalize on Sam's desperation this way; and indeed it did last a good while. Sam really had drunk quite a lot and must have been bursting to go, Frodo noticed through his desirous haze; he went for probably a solid minute. The stream finally died down, and with a push of his hips Sam urged out another trickle. When that trickle fell silent, Frodo still held on, thinking perhaps there could be another; also, he simply did not want to let go.

He had been keeping his eyes on his hand and Sam's stream, under the pretext of "aiming," but the light was very faint (which was a shame, as Frodo would have dearly liked a clear look at Sam's privates). And now, through touch alone, he slowly began to realize that what he was holding was firmer than it had been at the start. He also realized that in his distracted state he had leaned against Sam for support, and his erection had been grazing Sam's thigh. Frodo quickly pulled back. "All done?" he asked, his voice unsteady.

Instead of answering, Sam pushed his hips forward again; but this time there was no trickle. There was just a warm hardening in Frodo's hand. Frodo slid his palm up and down the shaft once, a definite caress, unable to stop himself.

"Mmm," Sam groaned. "Felt good."

This was one of those moments Frodo definitely did not want to misinterpret. "I'm sure it did," he said lightly. "Why, you must have drunk a whole barrel." He let his hand loosen, but was now facing a new quandary: with Sam clearly erect, was he just supposed to stuff him back into his trousers? Wouldn't that be considered rude in some bizarre fashion?

"No," Sam murmured. "Your hand. Felt good." And Sam looked directly at Frodo's face, and swung his hip aside, just enough to bump against Frodo's erection. Deliberately.

Frodo's breath caught. Dizzily, he let his forehead fall forward until it met Sam's temple. He was all too aware of where his right hand still was. "I never meant to...when we came out here...," Frodo whispered, haplessly.

"Me neither. But I'm finding I don't mind," Sam answered. He wriggled, but this time out of a different type of desperation. Frodo felt Sam's fast pulse, along the underside, at his fingertips.

With a whimper, Frodo crushed his lips against Sam's, pushed him back against a tree, and stroked with his right hand the way he would stroke himself. Sam sank to his knees on the moss-covered ground. Frodo slid down with him.

"Oh, if I'd known you'd react like this, I'd have conjured up this kind of situation earlier," Sam panted.

"You conjured this up?" Frodo laughed in delighted shock.

"No, of course not - I really was dying to go; I couldn't fake that. I just took advantage of the circumstances, you might say."

"So...you've thought of me like this?"

"Aye - well, no; not like this exactly."

Frodo chuckled breathlessly. "No, even in my fevered fantasies about you, I never quite came up with this one, either. But I must say, it's...very..."

"Hot?"

"Yes, that's the word."

They abandoned talk. Both were still on their knees on the ground; Frodo had slipped his left arm around Sam to support him while he drew Sam's tongue into his mouth and his right hand stroked and squeezed. Soon Sam was emitting a grunt with every stroke, and thrusting his hips in synchronization, and then with a spasm he spilled over Frodo's hand and moaned against his mouth.

Frodo hugged Sam's head to his neck, savoring the scent of him, ale and sweat and sweet night air, just to take his mind off the fact that his fingers were now wet and sticky from the sacred moment he had long dreamed of, and that he himself was dangerously close to a similar finale. Still, with Sam handcuffed there was really nothing they could do. It would just have to wait until after Sam's gaffer had picked the lock. Maybe it would have to wait till tomorrow. Maybe it would never happen at all; maybe Sam was already regretting what they had just done.

Even if that was the case, Frodo thought, at least he had this memory. At least now he knew some particularly wonderful things about Sam, and no one could take that knowledge away.

"Feeling better now?" Frodo asked.

"Mm," Sam purred in agreement. He turned and kissed Frodo, with damp lips. "But we're not done here." He started kissing Frodo's neck, trailing a line down to his chest.

"Oh, but..." Frodo weakly protested. "How? With your hands tied, I don't expect you to, really..."

"Take off your trousers," Sam murmured, near Frodo's ear, "and sit up on that log over there."

Frodo paused only a moment, then hurriedly started shucking his breeches as instructed. "All the way off?"

"All the way off."

Frodo stepped out of his trousers, and, naked from the waist down, moved back a few feet to spread them like a blanket upon the log, to avoid splinters. He then sat down upon them and watched as Sam shuffled forward on his knees, eyes fixed on the shadowy area between Frodo's legs. Frodo felt the stare like a touch; he moaned under his breath, wondering if it was possible to be brought to climax just by being looked at. When Sam reached Frodo, he nudged Frodo's knee aside with his shoulder, and Frodo - who had been thinking that Sam couldn't do this, wouldn't do this, couldn't possibly have this in mind - found himself mistaken, and gloriously so.

Frodo's right hand dug into the log for support, and his left clutched Sam's shoulder, as Sam swirled his tongue up and down the length of him, and teased the head in and out of his mouth. Gasping to hold back for another ten seconds, Frodo asked, "Where did you learn...how to..."

Sam pulled his lips away just enough to answer, "I never have. I'm just thinking of what would feel good to me."

"You have very fine...instincts...oh..." Frodo opened his legs wider, and found himself pushing his hips forward, gripping Sam's shoulder to hold them both up, letting the kneeling and handcuffed Sam Gamgee pleasure him with his warm wet mouth...

That image, that knowledge, sent Frodo careening to climax; he came, shaking, in Sam's mouth, and to his vague surprise Sam didn't pull away, but kept him deep, and tasted him till the end.

When Sam did finally pull away, leaving Frodo wet and slightly cold between the legs, in the night air, Frodo fell back across the log, and spent a moment catching his breath. He rolled his head to the side and smiled at Sam, who was climbing carefully to his feet, licking at the corners of his lips. Frodo rose on unsteady legs, and used the sleeve of his shirt to dab at Sam's mouth.

"Least I could do," Frodo murmured, shyly.

"Bit of ale, in the taste of that," said Sam. "Rather enjoyed it."

"Think you've had enough ale," Frodo teased.

"Hair of the dog that bit you. Always the best remedy. Speaking of which, there's a hair stuck to my lip just over here...don't suppose you could..."

"Of course." Frodo touched away one of his own short, curled hairs from the edge of Sam's mouth, then looked down bashfully. "That was utterly lovely, and I hope it shan't be the last time."

"Ah, how can I say no to you when you're standing here without any breeches on?" Sam grinned. Then he added, in a huskier tone, "Anytime you want to walk in the woods these summer nights, I'm up for it."

Frodo grasped a handful of Sam's shirt and pulled him closer. "I'll be taking you up on that," he said, and kissed him. "You'll be working late several nights this season, I'm afraid, Sam."

"That's fine, sir. But...think you can put me back in my trousers now? I mean, before we go back on the road, it might be respectable."

Frodo giggled. "All right, since you insist. Now, do you dress to the left or to the right?" He took hold of Sam, who now felt limper, and tucked him inside his trousers, playfully groping as Sam squirmed and laughed and requested to be put on the right.

"I suppose I ought to get dressed as well," Frodo said. Then it was his turn to squirm. "But...now that you mention ale...I think I'd like to go too, so...I'll be right back..."

"Don't you dare step behind a tree," Sam ordered.

Frodo stopped, and slowly turned. He stepped into a patch of moonlight. "All right. Can you see well enough from here?"

Sam, standing straight with his arms behind him, nodded. "Right there should be fine."

"I just know I'm blushing," Frodo muttered, as he took himself in hand and aimed.

"Only fair, though, wouldn't you say?"

"Only fair."

* * *

After Sam's gaffer had finished laughing, and after he had got Sam's siblings out of bed to come look at their brother (Frodo stood steadfastly beside Sam all the while), he got the lock picked and Sam was free. Frodo, naturally, invited him back to Bag End, just for a few minutes, because he claimed to have some soothing ointment that he could rub onto Sam's wrists and arms.

Sam was a bit late in getting home that night.

Frodo, the next morning, wrapped up the iron handcuffs in an old length of fabric, and sent them as a package back to Merry, with the note:

"Dear Merry: Your shackles, you silly ass. The Gaffer picked them open without damaging either them or Sam. All the same, I would stay away from Sam for the next few months if I were you. Did you ever find the key? If so, may I recommend trying them out on whichever lass you're chasing these days (or Pippin, if such be your tastes). Thinking it over, I can imagine some profitable situations you could devise. Just promise me you won't tell me about them later, because, really, Merry, I don't want to hear the details. Love to the cousins. Yours, Frodo."


End file.
